Evening's long shadow lay peaceful between a walk in the neighbor hood, where the windows are looked at, not through. And the air is not shattered with alarm.
Behind the church doors in the pews: a congregation is dead. I take them downstairs to be buried.
The preacher is undisturbed. "Where the dead lay the crows will gather."
This game played between the ears. My own arm beating my own head. the cry of the small fry, so the bull bellies up, filling his hole. Always in need of more.
Behind an ancient well, with stillness, and under a dark sky with diamonds, there is no natural, nor is there any contrived